


Echo

by seventyseven



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Dogs, Gen, Pets, Post Reichenbach, Post Reichenbach Dog Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventyseven/pseuds/seventyseven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How long do you keep the phone number of a dead man?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echo

**Author's Note:**

> I had been trying to write this concept into an original story and had been failing for weeks, so I wrote this on impulse at 2 AM instead. This is my first Sherlock fic, so any feedback would be appreciated!
> 
> Also on [my tumblr.](http://usb-toaster.tumblr.com/post/42475499209/echo)

_08:31 21/06/12_

_“You’ve reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. If your inquiry is about a case, refer to my website or to my associate, Dr. John Watson. Feel free to leave a message but do make sure it’s worth my time.” Beep._

“Sherlock, I-” John swallows hard, hearing his own name like a punch to the gut. “Give me a ring when you get the chance, yeah?”

He lowers the phone from his ear, setting it beside himself on the bed with an unprecedented level of care. He does not miss the trembling in his hands as he ends the call but does his best to ignore it anyway. He goes to make a cup of tea and tries not to think about anything at all when he catches himself accidentally making two.

 

 

**

 

_17:02 15/07/12  
_

_“You’ve reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. If your inquiry is about a case, refer to my website or to my associate, Dr. John Watson. Feel free to leave a message but do make sure it’s worth my time.” Beep._

“Listen, you bloody sod, I’ve had enough of this. Whatever you’re doing, just stop it and come home, alright? You’re not _dead_ , you idiot, stop playing games, I’ve had enough. It’s bloody stupid is what it is, and I can’t _do_ it anymore, Sherlock, I can’t, I-”

He goes on like this for a few minutes. When an automated voice cuts him off and thanks him for calling, he chucks the phone against the hostel’s wall, where it embeds itself in the thin plaster with an unsatisfying thunk. John supposes he’s not getting his room deposit back and hopes that one day he’ll be able to care.  The phone, miraculously, is still intact.

 

 

**

 

_20:03 08/08/12_

_“You’ve reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. If your inquiry is about a case, refer to my website or to my associate, Dr. John Watson. Feel free to leave a message but do make sure it’s worth my time.” Beep._

“Sher...look, it’s- I know you’re...please just...”

John swears and ends the call, absently rubbing his leg as he redials. The cane has made a permanent return now that John has come back to the flat, and he’s sure to keep it within arm’s reach at all times. Mrs Hudson doesn’t say anything when she sees him hobbling through the halls and he’s more grateful for that than he is prepared to admit. When he gets the voicemail message again, he leaves nothing but dead air.

Ella asks if he’s considered pet ownership and tells him about a litter of puppies that came in to the local pound last week. He’s not stupid, he can see what she’s doing, and the idea of replacing his best friend with a dog is affronting in a number of ways but he goes all the same. By the time he arrives there’s just one scrawny bulldog pup left, brown with white spots and much smaller than it should be. The volunteer smiles knowingly as she places the dog into John’s arms.

“S’name’s Gladstone,” she says, pushing a dark forelock out of her own eyes. “He’s the last, just about 10 weeks old. Got some trouble running around is all, he’s really cute.”

John considers the wrinkled mass of fur and fat in his arms. “How much did you say the adoption fees were?”

“50 quid, sir.”

Soon after, the dog- Gladstone- gallops along beside him on a lead, snapping playfully at John’s cane. The parallel is laughable and John wonders if he’s being set up for some grand punch line. Still, it’s the first time he’s smiled in ages, and so he tries not to dwell on the symbolism. Mrs Hudson pretends to be cross but sneaks the pup treats when John isn’t looking, and Molly sends over a care package with toys, a bed, and a set of feeding dishes. It’s only when Gladstone is big enough to park himself in the low black armchair that John’s guts begin to twist into macramé, but by then the dog has become a paradigm of tenacity and has no intention of moving. John lets him stay.

 

 

**

 

_03:48 15/12/12_

It has been six months. John isn’t sure why humans put such significance on milestone dates- a week, a month, six months, a year- but all the extra attention reminds him that something is wrong, that he is fragile and weak, and he hates it. His coworkers give him sidelong glances when they think he can’t see, but he has lost the ability to discern between scorn and pity and concern and so he’s on his guard all day, hackles raised. His leg is ready to give out by lunchtime. Sarah, bless her, lets him leave early without saying a word. He misses a call from Lestrade during the cab ride home and doesn’t call back. Mrs Hudson sends up a plate of fresh scones and jam, which he barely acknowledges; he doesn’t eat much at all anymore. John briefly considers going to Angelo’s for dinner but chases away the idea with a sound that might have once been a laugh.

He lies awake in bed at inhuman hours, sleep-starved mind hallucinating shadows on the walls and noises from the closet. There is a bottle of sleeping pills on his nightstand he is supposed to be taking, but they leave him feeling lifeless and empty when he wakes, and not in a good way. John counts cracks in the ceiling and wishes he were dead.

He recognizes that not even a Holmes could be this cruel, this careless and conniving, and finally allows himself to accept what he has been rejecting for months. Knowing still doesn’t make it hurt any less, and he finds himself calling just to hear the voicemail message, to hear that voice saying _my associate, Dr. John Watson_ as many times as he needs to know that he _mattered_ , that it wasn’t all for nothing. He fishes the phone out of the nightstand, deliberately ignoring the brush of his skin against an unyielding metal mass, and uses the speed dial. He waits the usual eternity and then:

_“We’re sorry, but there is no more room to record messages. Please hang up and try again later.”_

John hangs up and tosses the phone away. At the foot of his bed, Gladstone grumbles and snorts, stumpy little tail wiggling against the mattress.  John swallows two of the pills dry and remembers that Harry has never been fond of dogs.

 

**

 

_12:57 14/03/13_

_“We’re sorry. Your call cannot be completed as dialled. Please hang up and try again later.”_

He supposes he should be amazed that Mycroft kept paying the bill for so long and tries to ignore the hollow pang in his gut. It is, of course, a battle he could never have hoped to win, and so he decides to talk Gladstone out for a walk to help clear his mind. They hobble down the hallway, their footfalls the beating of an arrhythmic heart.

The sky is the colour of frostbitten flesh and John briefly questions his sanity before being yanked into the street by an overzealous Gladstone. It’s raining hard, and John soon stumbles with his cane against the kerb, dropping his phone into a puddle as deep as the Thames. The techs at the shop confirm irreparable water damage in an instant. His SIM card is damaged too, they say, and while he’s not entirely sure if that’s true, they give him a new one and with it, a new phone number. The edges of the new mobile are smooth and unfamiliar and jut into his palm at uncomfortable angles. John doesn’t like it, to say the least. He spends an exhausting afternoon updating his contacts with his new information with the help of an old-fashioned address book. Meanwhile, Gladstone amuses himself by nudging one of Molly’s toys around the entire flat, looking entirely too pleased with himself for all the trouble he’s caused.

John does not add the number into the new phone. He supposes it’s finally time, and he can still recite it in his sleep, anyhow.

 

 

** **  
**

_14:21 01/05/13_

There is a knock at the door, sharp and hesitant all at once. Gladstone growls imperceptibly from his usual post at the armchair. It takes John an age to get over to the door, the would-be visitor knocking all the while. “Hang on, hang on...” he says as he undoes the various locks, fingers trembling on the catches. “All right...”

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t a slightly bedraggled but very much alive incarnation of his former flatmate.

“...Sherlock?”

“I tried to call,” the man offers lamely, genuine guilt spreading across his features. “Really. You, ah, changed your mobile.”

John isn’t sure if he wants to cry or hug him or punch him in the jaw or all three. He takes a long breath to steady himself before attempting to speak. “...No, hang on, you’re...”

“I _am_ officially dead, but I can assure you that I am very much physically alive.” Sherlock glances down briefly before returning John’s gaze. “May I, ah, come in? I owe you an...apology, to say the least.”

He’s _nervous_ , John realizes. It’s entirely unsettling to see Sherlock this way- walking on eggshells, overly polite, even _fidgeting_ \- and John wonders if he’s hallucinating or just dreaming. After a moment’s deliberation, he decides to take it either way and shuffles sideways, allowing the taller man into the flat. Their flat. Sherlock sniffs the air incredulously, a million deductions already running through his mind, and John has never been so happy to see a look of such disgust on anyone’s face. “You got a _dog?_ Why on Earth- _John, he’s in my chair!_ ”

John just smiles and shuts the door, sliding the locks back into place and moving to put on the kettle. The cane lies forgotten by the entrance. He does not ask Gladstone to move.

 


End file.
